


Life in Interesting Times

by rapacityinblue



Category: Inception (2010), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon Compliant, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapacityinblue/pseuds/rapacityinblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best part about having children is making them pull strings. Especially when they work for the FBI. </p><p>(Or, Arthur and Eames adopt a kid and raise that kid into Neal Caffrey: A Skybird Continuation)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Skybird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/314073) by [windsweptfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic). 



> As you might have gathered, this is a continuation of Windswept's wonderful [Skybird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/314073/chapters/503047) series. It was written with her permission, and I can take no credit for the White Collar, Inception, or Skybird universes. They are all other peoples' brain children, and I'm just here to play in the sandbox. This fic is in no way Skybird canon. Robert Moreau isn't mine, either, I stole him from Skybird with the rest of it. 
> 
> If you haven't read Skybird, go do it. Now. It's awesome. I'll wait. 
> 
> If you still haven't read it, you'll probably be confused, but hopefully the fic more or less stands alone. All you need to know is that Arthur and Eames adopted Neal when he was 13. When he was 17, the events of Inception happened. This fic takes place during the first half of Season 3 of White Collar, and this fic is my poor attempt to make the Skybird fic compliant with White Collar canon, but that mostly relies on Neal lying a lot and his leaving St. Louis about 8 years earlier than described in canon. Some fudging of dates is necessary. Just squint and you'll get it. Whatever, it'll be jossed by next week anyway. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

The interrogation room was one of the least welcoming, least comfortable places in existence. It had been designed to intimidate and, overall, Neal thought it did a pretty good job. But the man sitting there currently -- broad, with just enough muscle and stubble to hint at thuggery -- lounged. Worry free, untroubled, as if the aluminum chair was velvet upholstered. Jones sat across from him, poker-faced, unable to glare away the suspect’s grin. 

Neal had to look twice, a treacherous third time, to convince himself of what he was really seeing. 

He’d known it was bad. It was bad enough that _Diana_ had thought to warn him as he’d dropped his hat and coat at his desk -- a quick, cryptic, “Look out, Caffrey,” and he’d kept his face bland, even as he frantically reviewed the things that could have gone wrong. Peter making him a suspect in a case. Peter finding old evidence. Any combination of Peter and the treasure. And when he saw Eames in the conference room, he realized: things were not bad. They were catastrophic.

There must have been some sort of signal, or else Peter really did have a supernatural sense for driving Neal mad, because at exactly that moment, he appeared. He’d been holding a file; it hit the desk between them with all the menace that was not present in his face. That was too bad. They'd been making such progress in trusting each other. “Neal,” he said, in a voice Neal had long ago come to associate with prison, “I need you to tell me if this man is who he says he is.” 

“Almost certainly not,” Neal said. His eyes swept the office, looking for one more face. In fact, he'd been searching for that unobtrusive presence since he'd first seen Eames. He came almost exclusively as part of a set. But Neal stopped to lift the folder and scan its contents. The adoption papers for Nick Halden, he thought, were a particularly nice touch. 

“Those are forged,” Peter said, which Neal personally considered a bit unnecessary. 

“But they did get your attention,” he murmured, his eyebrows high. It was hard not to appreciate particularly good work. 

He let the file fall back to the desk and felt, rather than heard, the presence move into place behind him. There was a distinct feeling of something that had been missing being put back where it belonged. Arthur had that effect. 

Neal turned, knowing what was coming next, and caught the projectile smoothly, setting it at a jaunty angle on his head. 

“Nice,” Arthur said, in reference to either the hat, the catch, or both. “Vintage?” 

Neal grinned. “Peter, I’d like you to meet my parents.”

* * *

The uproar that followed was, in no small part, due to the audience they’d collected. It wasn’t Neal’s fault he drew attention (an argument that had never been particularly effective) but the implications were rather worrisome. Peter didn’t seem nearly as bothered. He had Neal’s upper arm in a grip that compelled him into the office. Arthur just made it in before the door shut, closing the rest of the division on the other side of the soundproof glass. He and Peter appeared to be engaging in a wordless war over his presence. At least, that was what Neal surmised from context and the narrow-eyed glances between them.

“Have you ever noticed how gossipy this office is?” Neal asked, innocent, wide-eyed, to break the tension. “It’s a little concerning. Some of those people have higher security clearance than I do.” 

“Everyone has higher security clearance than you do, Neal,” Peter said, without taking his eyes off of Arthur. “The janitors have higher security clearance than you do. The termites have higher security clearance than you do. Now, explain.” Although Neal followed the jump smoothly, he kept his face blank. “You said these were fake,” Peter added, hefting the file. 

“Nick Halden is fake,” Neal said. 

“I’m aware of that.” Peter liked to pretend that he didn’t have much patience for Neal’s games, but after nearly two years, Neal had a pretty good idea of far he could push. He liked to see how thin a line he could get Peter’s lips to make before he exploded. He was approaching a new record. 

“So how could anyone adopt him?” Taking pity on the FBI agent, Neal said, “Those are fake. That doesn’t mean they don’t have the real ones...” 

“Somewhere safe,” Arthur interjected. “I apologize for all the dramatics, Agent Burke, but we needed a way to approach you.” 

“Be careful what you wish for.” Peter closed his eyes for a moment as if in pain, and Neal, working only with fragments, still felt he knew enough of the situation to put in his opinion. 

“They wouldn’t have come without a good reason, Peter.” 

His words seemed to decide the agent, who looked, as he often did, as if he couldn’t believe he’d been dragged into this. “Fine. But you are a suspect,” he said to Arthur. His finger fixed on Neal. “You are both suspects. Neal, I don’t want you anywhere near this case.” 

“Okay,” Neal agreed. a beat passed, wherein neither party seemed inclined to explain. “Suspect in what?” Peter groaned in disgust and left the room. Neal looked between Peter's back and his father. “Valid question!” he called at Peter's shoulders.

‘I don’t want you anywhere near this case’, translated to ‘go home.’ Diana, who didn’t mince words the way Peter did, made that clear as she ejected Neal from the building, dragging him away from Arthur with a terse, “You two can’t be talking to each other.”

“Technically, I haven’t been charged with anything,” Neal pointed out practically as he was herded into an elevator. “Will _someone_ please tell me what’s going on?” 

Someone, it turned out, was Mozzie. Neal might not have worn a hole in the floor as he waited, but he suspected June would have strong words for him about the incessant footsteps. Mozzie arrived, eventually, within the hour. He entered with his hands up defensively. “I’ve got Eames out on bail, but Neal, before you ask, I absolutely cannot violate the sacred protections of attorney-client privilege.” 

Neal chose to ignore him. “Fill me in, Moz.” He wasn’t in the mood for the games, and that must have come through, because, after only a moment, Mozzie’s head ducked in acquiescence. 

“Look, all I can tell you is it’s about a Matisse.” 

Neal stood, emphasizing the height difference between them. “This is family, Moz. If you needed help --” 

Again, Mozzie held up his hands. “Please, my delicate nature can’t handle all this posturing. I said I can’t tell you.” Before Neal could protest again, he added, “But I can show you.” 

He slid a thin plastic case across the table between them. Neal held it between two fingers, almost gingerly. “DVD footage?” 

“Of your non-biological father’s interrogation.” Mozzie swept him an elaborate bow, hand flourishing above his bare scalp. “You’re welcome.” 

Neal barely had the DVD in when his door scraped open again. He didn't need to turn around to know who stood behind him, and instead, he directed his gaze toward the DVD player. "Locks. I need locks.” 

“You need common sense,” Peter offered instead, raising an eyebrow at the frozen still of Eames on the screen. “Do I want to know how you got that?” 

“Probably not,” Neal said, at the exact same time Mozzie said, “Got what?” 

“Neal.” Peter came between Neal and the television. “Listen to me. I understand you want to be involved, but if these men are who they say they are --” 

“Oh, they’re not,” Mozzie put in from the corner. Neal and Peter turned as one, then made a joint decision to ignore his input. 

Peter, always the perfect paternal figure, managed to be both comforting and condescending. his voice low and even, he said, "Neal, your involvement can only complicate things."

“Complicate what? I don’t even know what we’re talking about.” Neal pitched his voice to the same register. 

“I understand you’re curious--” Peter began again, but Neal cut him off. 

“If I had your family in an interrogation room, you wouldn’t be ‘curious.’” 

“You can’t touch it, Neal. Anything that goes past you is tainted.” Peter looked apologetic, but firm.

He needed a different approach. He leaned forward, keeping his shoulders and chest open, his face earnest. “Peter, if this was Elizabeth...” 

“Don’t,” Peter said flatly. “Don’t try that. It’s not Elizabeth.” 

Neal just stared at him. It was hard to keep his face honest, he was so used to masks and diversions. But he managed. 

“It’s not Elizabeth,” Peter said, with a sigh of defeat, “because mine is not a family of criminals.” 

Grinning with the victory, Neal leaned back, his eyes suddenly light. “What I say? I come by it honestly.” 

“You don’t get to say that often, do you?” Peter said. 

“Almost never,” Neal agreed. 

“Alright.” Peter went into what Neal referred to as his ‘Dad Mode,’ “But these are the rules. Anything you want to see, I show you. Eyes only. You don’t get to touch any evidence, and I hold your hand the entire time. You don’t investigate on your own. If you see something we missed --” 

“Oh, Peter, I’m sure you didn’t miss anything,” Neal said.

Peter ignored him, just like he’d ignored Mozzie a moment ago. “You tell me, or Diana, or Jones. Not Mozzie. And you don’t speak to either of them.” 

“Deal,” Neal said instantly, holding out his hand. 

Peter’s eyes were filled with suspicion as he shook it -- undoubtedly trying to figure out what loophole he’d forgotten to close. It was true, when Neal agreed this easily, there usually was one. 

“And I get that,” he said, pointing to the DVD player. “We’re going to my house. I want you where I can watch you.” 

“You’re the boss, boss,” Neal agreed. He led the way out the door, shrugging on a suit and jacket as he went. Mozzie followed, drawing a skeptical look from Peter. 

“I think it is in the best interests of my client that I be there,” Mozzie said. 

Peter had a familiar look on his face as the door shut behind them. It was the face that said he knew he was being scammed. He just couldn’t figure out how.

* * *

Satchmo greeted them at the hall of Peter's house. From the look on his face, Neal was guessing that this was not the welcome he'd expected. 

"Hey, boy. " Neal knelt on one knee to give the lab a hearty scratch behind the ears. With a burglar's eyes, he scanned the foyer. Elizabeth's keys were in the bowl by the door. Her coat hung neatly on the coat rack. Neal knew Peter saw it, too.

"Hon?" he moved past Neal as he spoke, alert, though nothing was overtly out of place. They found her in the kitchen.

In retrospect, her company was not completely unexpected. 

Eames sat at the island beside her, their knees close enough to touch. Arthur hovered a polite few feet away, ostensibly admiring the collection of pottery above the stove, as Eames spoke.

“So we’re barely talking to each other -- at least not civilly -- and one of our coworkers has the temerity to mention that old proverb about uniting in the face of a common enemy. Which Neal, somehow, interprets as instruction to try and steal the Mona Lisa.” Elizabeth tipped her head back and laughed. 

Peter turned to Neal, one eyebrow raised eloquently. Neal gave him a bland look and a shrug. “That’s outside your jurisdiction. And it worked,” he said. 

“After a manner,” Arthur agreed. 

“It certainly united us in a desire to lock you in your room without supper,” Eames added. 

Elizabeth stood, coming over to kiss Peter on the cheek. She turned to Neal, her eyes gleaming even as she scolded. “You didn’t tell me your family was going to be in town.” 

“It was a surprise visit,” Neal assured her, an easy smile in place as Moz slipped by him and made straight for the wine rack. It was refreshing to know he treated other peoples’ possessions with the same proprietary disregard he had for Neal’s. “Though I’m delighted to have them here.” 

“Uh-huh.” There was a look Elizabeth Burke got when she was putting a puzzle together in her mind. She had it now, as she turned her eyes on each of the five men in turn. “And why are you talking about them in the third person when they’re in the room?” 

Neal had made his way to the table, and was leaning over it, examining the file Peter had left there. It was unrelated to this case, but it made a convenient prop. He looked up at Elizabeth’s question, his face earnest and surprised. “Oh, I’m not allowed to talk to them,” he said.

Elizabeth’s gaze came to settle on her husband. Peter spread his hands wide, doing his best to imitate Neal’s innocent look. It didn’t sit well on him. “It’s an ongoing investigation, El,” he said. 

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she said. 

Neal leaned in close to Peter’s ear and muttered, “For what it’s worth, I agree with your wife. You’re being very rude to your guests.” 

Eames watched the exchange with undisguised delight. Mozzie and Arthur ignored it all, and each other, with passable disinterest. Peter let out a breath of air through his nose that was as close to an assent as they were likely to get. “Fine,” he muttered. 

Just like that, it was settled. Elizabeth nodded her head once, radiating satisfaction. “Mozzie, come help me get lemonade for everyone,” she said, drawing him away from her wine rack. “We’ll sit out on the porch.” 

On the Burkes’ porch, a glass of lemonade in his hand, Neal finally got the answers to the questions he’d been asking for hours. 

“Eames brought a forged Matisse painting they’ve got in the Met. He brought it with him this morning,” Peter explained, leaning over the table and laying down a picture of the painting. 

“I love Matisse,” Neal said, picking up the photo to study it. The Met was inside his radius, barely, but he didn’t get there as often as he used to. “The way he blends impressionism and modernism...” His voice trailed off, and Eames, wry, picked it up. 

“Yes, absolutely no idea where you’d have gotten that,” he said. 

Neal grinned at him, quicksilver, then it was gone. “Why were you copying a Matisse?” he asked, setting the photo down. 

“Part of your birthday present,” Eames said. Peter frowned. 

“Your birthday is in May,” he said to Neal. 

“Neal has several birthdays,” Arthur put in, his voice just as dry as Eames’s had been a moment ago. Although he said nothing explicitly, there was a clear direction in his voice, and it pointed them all back to the subject at hand. Neal, for his part, looked completely unapologetic. 

Peter said, “So for Neal’s birthday, you forged a Matisse--” 

“Copied,” Eames put in, a frown on his face. “It isn’t forgery unless you try to pass it off as the original work.” 

“You copied a Matisse,” Peter corrected, but couldn’t help adding, “Possibly with the intent to replace the original, which is hanging in the Met --” 

“Intentions aren’t criminal,” Eames said, bored, harkening back to what Neal guessed had been a longstanding argument that morning. 

“Intentions are criminal!” Peter burst. “Intent is one of the fundamental cornerstones of how criminal activity is determined!” 

“Can’t prove I was going to steal the real one,” Eames said, with something like a glower. 

His teeth gritted, Peter continued. “You copied the Matisse. As a present. And when you came to New York to replace--” 

“--Sketch--” Eames said.

“--Study the original, you found?”

Eames leaned forward. “I found the original had already been stolen.” 

“And replaced with?” Peter’s tone was prompting, but also eager. Neal recognized it as the way he sounded when he was hot on a case, and just getting to the good part. 

Eames, for his part, looked equally wolfish. “Replaced with one of my own copies.” 

Neal, who was very familiar with his father’s habits, matched the grin with one of his own as understanding dawned. “You made more than one,” he said. 

Eames shrugged fluidly. “It was meant to be a present! The first wasn’t up to my usual standards.” 

“And you knew something was off, and decided to come oversee the --” Arthur caught himself, and slid in the word ‘delivery’ instead of ‘swap’, as if it was what he’d already meant to say “--yourself.” 

“Indeed,” Eames said. “So obviously, my intermediary decided to use the initial painting for their own gain, instead of delivering it to my ward and protege as requested.” 

“Or your intermediary tried to make the swap without you, and leave with the real Matisse before you could give _that_ to your ward and protege,” Peter muttered. Neal turned wide eyes on him. 

“Are you accusing me of trafficking stolen goods?” He asked. 

Elizabeth had been following wordlessly, ignoring the many interruptions as she strung the facts of the case together. “So, honey, you need to find the original. And Eames, you’re here to prove that you’re being framed for a forgery you actually committed.” There was a moment’s pause. “Arthur, Neal, you’re obviously helping Eames. I guess my only question is, what’s Mozzie’s stake in this?” 

The tiny man looked up. “Are you kidding? That lift was pristine. Whoever stole that painting, I want to meet them.” 

Elizabeth grinned, looking around the table. “Looks like you boys have a painting to find.”

* * *

Overall, the afternoon had more of the feel of a garden party than crime-solving. There was no particular urgency as the sun sank lower over Elizabeth’s perfectly manicured garden. Peter broke out a six pack of beer, and Elizabeth supplied the rest of them with a lovely moscato which, Moz hinted heavily, would pair nicely with a sweet-glazed ham. That lead, inevitably, to a discussion of Peter’s deviled ham sandwiches: whether they contained any actual pork, and the scent of the van. (Peter maintained it had smelled that way when he created the task force.)

When the conversation finally came back around to Eames and his problem they were all a bit more relaxed. Alcohol had worked its miracle, smoothing out the sharp edges between them. Arthur allowed Satchmo to make a pillow of his loafers. 

“It sounds fairly open and shut to me,” Peter said, draining the dregs of a bottle and setting it down. “You know who the painting went to. That’s a good lead.” There was a moment, awkward, and an honest to god cricket chirped in the early evening. Crickets. In New York City. “You know who you gave the painting too, don’t you?” 

“In a matter of speaking,” Eames said idly, spinning the stem of his glass between two fingers. 

Peter sat up, leaning forward. “You farmed this out from another continent, and you didn’t even use a reliable intermediary?” 

“It was low-key job! I was getting a birthday present --” 

“You sound more ridiculous every time you say that,” Arthur told him, shifting. Satchmo gave a grunt and raised his head to look balefully at him before settling back in. 

“Look, it’s been a while, I thought it would be a lark for old time’s sake. I wasn’t expecting it to go pear shaped. I did check his references.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing no one ever forges those,” Neal said. “You taught me never to take a paper reference, Eames. You taught me that.” 

Eames muttered something. Neal continued to watch him, unabashed amazement on his face. 

“This is sad.” Neal said. “It’s actually painful. I knew you two had turned into old ladies, out there, but I had no idea it’d gotten this bad.” 

“Enough.” Peter held up a hand to cut through the bickering. “Eames, you have to have something. A name. An email?” 

“Cell phone. Traced it myself, it’s a burner, and he’s already dropped it. Name came back with a last known, but I doubt that will turn over anything significant.” Eames said.

“It’s a place to start,” Peter said. “Neal, if you were trying to track down a stolen Matisse, what would be your first step?” 

Neal leaned back, his shoulders rising and falling fluidly. “I’d get in touch with a couple of fences. If someone has it, there’ll be chatter, even if they’re keeping it low. We could check with Eames.” His eyes slid to the side. “Not you. Someone picked up your name after we left the city, tried to build on your rep. No one bit.” Neal turned back to Peter. “But Eames is always looking to move up in the world. Get a genuine Matisse, that buys you a plate at the big boy table.” 

Peter nodded as Neal spoke, processing the words. “Then that’s our play,” he said. “Caffrey, meet me in the office tomorrow, we’ll find Eames together. And you three, just stay out of it,” He added, turning a stern look on each man in turn. 

“Good plan,” Neal spoke into the tense silence, his eyes especially blue in the evening light. “Should we have a team huddle, or something?” 

Mozzie stood up and left the table. Arthur, in a surprising show of solidarity, followed him, leaving behind a disgruntled Labrador. 

“Team name? Chant?” Neal asked. The table emptied. At his feet, Satchmo let out a huff of air through his nose and shifted from the space Arthur had abandoned to Neal. Neal poured himself the last of the moscato and raised his glass to the dog. “I completely agree,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Things ended well enough that night. It wasn’t much of a surprise when they fell apart the next morning. 

“Office,” Peter said, pushing past Neal’s desk in a front of fury. Neal stood and followed, wise enough to stay silent for once. 

Up until that moment, the morning had been pleasant. Neal had his morning coffee on the roof with June, who was beside herself that Eames and Arthur had already booked a hotel. The two men had “escorted” Neal home after their evening and stayed for dinner, quite sweeping the lady off her feet with their respective understated charisma and debonair charm. June, who didn’t have an inhospitable bone in her body, had offered them a room for the duration of their stay, an offer which they’d appreciated but ultimately refused. 

Which was fine by Neal, as they’d had the forethought to choose a hotel and make dinner reservations inside his radius. He’d made plans to join them the next evening, said good night, and gone to sleep. Leading into the aforementioned pleasant morning. 

After coffee, he’d made his way to work, walking through the early morning bustle of New York at rush hour. He’d gotten in before most of his co-workers, and while the FBI office would never be empty enough for true snooping (nor would Peter ever let him go entirely unsupervised in -- well, anywhere) he enjoyed the peace. Flirted with Kelly, who was a wonderful receptionist and greatly undervalued by the bureau. Previewed the menu for dinner tonight. 

And then Peter had arrived, almost foaming at the mouth. 

Neal closed the door of Peter’s office behind him, trusting the soundproofing, even if they were still in full view of the filling cubicles below. He needn’t have bothered. Peter’s voice, when he spoke, was pitched low, boiling with unconcealed menace. 

“You told me your father was a dirty cop, Neal, and I didn’t ask any questions. A dirty cop is one thing, but you bring this into my house -- you bring _rogue CIA_ into my house, you let them drink with my wife--” 

“Peter, slow down,” Neal said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he was afraid he did. 

For the second time in as many days, a file hit the table between them, displacing more air than really seemed appropriate for something its size. Neal picked up the file, reading carefully. 

Eames’s rap sheet was familiar; a litany of crimes in New York and abroad. Some of them were truly his work, some of them were heists he’d laugh to know had been attributed to him. Some of the most important jobs were missing entirely. But Neal didn’t think it was Eames’s file that had raised Peter’s wrath, any more than he thought this was simple competition between the Bureau and the Agency. 

Almost hesitant, he turned the page.

“You were busy,” he said, his voice quiet. He glanced up at Peter. “This file should be buried.” 

Peter said, darkly, “I dug.” 

Saito’s cleaners were good, but the CIA’s were better. Neal scanned Arthur’s file, but saw no mention of dreamsharing or the PASIV device. What he did see -- 

“Evading arrest? Aiding and abetting a fugitive, obstruction of justice, Neal, _murder._ Dominick Cobb is listed as a known associate.” Peter was practically frothing. 

“Dominick Cobb didn’t kill his wife. The charges against him were dropped.” Neal remembered the fallout from that fiasco all too well. 

“The charges disappeared, along with two years of of evidence, time, and manpower spent hunting him,” Peter said darkly. “I’ve seen enough coverups to know what one looks like.” 

“None of this is true, Peter.” Neal stayed calm, doing his best to project it into the conversation. “Let me explain--” 

“I don’t want an explanation,” Peter said. “I don’t want you to make this sound reasonable. I want to know where he is.” 

Neal couldn’t see a way around it. “Their hotel --” Of course, Peter had sent his men.

But they were gone already.

* * *

Technically, _legally_ , there was nothing Peter could hold them on. It had been almost fifteen years since Arthur had been in the US, a year less for Eames, if you didn’t know about their brief visit to Los Angeles, which, of course, no one did. Arthur had never been a suspect in Mal’s death; he’d had an airtight alibi at the time, and the death had since been classified a suicide. On everything else, the statutes of limitation were long expired. 

But Peter knew about a stolen Matisse in the Met, and Peter didn’t need official charges when his gut was telling him to bring someone in. Neal’s attempts to convince him that Eames and Arthur were above board, the few that he’d been allowed to voice, had done nothing to sway Peter.. 

When Peter thought Neal had his hand in a case, he sent Neal home. When he was truly furious -- and, admittedly, Neal had never seen him reach this level before -- he kept Neal with him at all times. 

Which was why Neal was sitting on the Burkes’ couch, leaning forward, his wrists against his knees. 

“They probably had the painting the entire time,” Peter said as he paced his living room. 

At least Elizabeth was on his side. She sat behind him, their shoulders just barely brushing in a silent show of solidarity. “Then why bring you into it, honey?” She asked practically. “They got in and out cleanly, why bring your attention to the theft?” 

“To raise the price.” Peter’s answer was immediate and definite. “We’ve seen it before.” 

But Neal shook his head. “You don’t play games like that with a Matisse. That’s for substandard goods or casual buyers, people who want a story.” 

“To distract us,” Peter said. Neal could see his determination to believe the worst, to pin the theft on Arthur and Eames. 

“Not when they still need to get the painting out of the country. Peter, my gut tells me there’s something wrong here. This is what you pay me for.” Neal said. 

“Not when your gut is very probably involved, Neal.” Peter’s lips, pressed into a thin line, reminded Neal that he would probably be under house arrest if Peter hadn’t tried that before, and seen how ineffectual it was. 

Elizabeth, like the angel that she was, intervened again. “Peter, honey, why don’t you go make coffee and we’ll all calm down,” she said. Her husband, trained over the years to obey, went with one last glowering look. 

Neal dropped his head and tilted it, looking at her. “I know why I don’t think they’re involved,” he said softly, thinking of a little boy sitting alone in the Brooklyn Museum. “Why don’t you?” 

Elizabeth’s hair fell over her shoulder in a dark wave, reminding Neal too much of Kate’s. “Because I’m sure they would involve law enforcement, to raise the price or mislead them, or maybe just for the glory of the heist,” she said. “But I don’t think they’d involve you.” 

By evening, she’d managed to convince Peter that he could track Neal’s anklet (never mind that Neal was an expert at getting out of it) and babysitting him was a waste of agency time and resources. Peter, reluctantly, cut Neal loose. Just in time for him to make his dinner reservation.

* * *

Until they sat down at the table, he wasn’t sure they’d be there.

“Hard to go to ground when you show up for dinner reservations,” Neal murmured, as the two men soundlessly took the seats across from him. 

“Hard to go to ground with a two mile radius,” Eames said, answering the question he hadn’t asked. They were staying close.

“Hard to go to ground when your dinner companion’s wearing a tracking anklet.” Count on Arthur to raise the stakes. 

Neal shrugged fluidly, leaning back in his chair. “Necessary risk. I told Peter it would be a crime to let the reservation go to waste. Even invited him and Elizabeth.” 

Eames laughed. “What if they’d accepted?” 

Neal’s grin was borderline wicked. “They didn’t.” In his world, that justified the risk. 

The restaurant was lovely, and it _would_ have been a shame to let the reservations go to waste. Classic French fare with locally sourced, seasonal ingredients? Mozzie had told him they actually grew the corn for the corn bisque up on the roof. A rooftop garden in New York was not something to be missed.

Apparently, Eames felt the same, since bowls were being served to their table. Their words were covered by the murmur of voices and the clink of china. The lights were pleasantly dim. 

“Sorry about Peter. He can get a little intense. He comes around if you give him enough time.” Neal paused to savor a bite of soup, then said, “I didn’t think he could get those files. I didn’t think anyone could.” 

“I don’t think he did,” Arthur said grimly, waiting patiently for his soup to cool, far too well bred to blow on it. “I think someone made them available to him.” 

This confession didn’t seem to surprise Eames, who was going about eating as if they discussed frame jobs and betrayals every day. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth, if you included hypotheticals. Neal paused. 

“That’s heavier than a stolen Matisse. By a lot.” he said finally. Neither of his fathers disagreed. 

Neal asked what he didn’t want to ask, but what he thought he had to, given the situation. Given the fact that someone had swapped a Matisse with a forgery of Eames’s, a sub-par forgery that was sure to be caught. Given that someone was leaking the FBI classified files linking Arthur to a murder. “Is someone after you? he asked. 

Eames grimaced and helped himself to some of Arthur’s soup. Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture Neal remembered as a sign of stress and frustration. He could have just been irritated that Eames was poaching, but he wasn’t.

It was as good as a verbal answer. 

Neal picked at the next course, an exquisite salad with fresh pears that grew on the miniature trees flanking the hostess stand. He felt, like it was happening all over again, the first time he’d felt a gun pressed between his shoulder blades. The first time he’d feared, not for his own life, but for his fathers’. 

And then Eames’s eyes widened, and he looked not at Neal, but beyond him. At the door. 

“Neal,” he said lightly, his index and middle fingers balancing a fork. “Your suit. You said he’d refused the invitation?” 

Arthur dabbed mildly at his lips with a napkin, and Neal twisted in his chair to look. 

“What would you have done if they weren’t here?” Neal asked. 

Peter shrugged. “They are,” he said, but he sounded resigned. Like he’d been afraid he would find them. 

With barely a murmur, their server added a chair to the table. Neal found himself holding his breath, waiting for handcuffs to come out, but Peter’s elbows rested on the table and he leaned forward. 

“I’m willing to listen,” he said, and while he didn’t look happy to be there, he wasn’t waving his badge, either. 

“Did Elizabeth put you up to this?” Neal asked, a low whisper. 

“I came to speak to your fathers, Neal,” Peter hissed back. 

Neal grinned. “She did, didn’t she?” 

Arthur set down his silverware carefully. “If I might ask, Agent Burke, what did change your mind?” he said. 

“You’re still here,” Peter said, looking at each man in turn. “You could have lifted that Matisse and been long gone by now, if that was your end game. You’re staying close, which makes me think you want to clear your names.” 

“Or we’re stuck. You flagged most of our aliases,” Eames said. 

“I don’t think that slows you down much,” Peter said. Eames tipped his glass in acknowledgement. “It just doesn’t add up. Why start an investigation if you know it leads here?” 

“In the interest of full disclosure, we didn’t know,” Arthur looked at the wine in his glass, swirling it, and not at Peter. “You should never have gotten your hands on that file.” 

“I know,” Peter said. “That file was buried deep. Whoever your Agency contact is, he’s good.” 

There was, historically, no love lost between the Agency and the Bureau. Looking between the two men, Neal couldn’t tell if it was that, or him, or a completely unrelated issue that fueled the antagonism burning between them. Possibly it had something to do with Peter believing Arthur was a murderer. 

“Tell me about Mal Cobb,” Peter said. 

“She was a co-worker, and a friend. Toward the end she became depressed and unstable. I recommended to our supervisor, her husband, that she take a leave of absence. After that, all I know is what he told me. ” Years of distance allowed Arthur to tell the tale impartially, but Neal remembered the anguish as his father watched his best friends slip away. 

Neal kept his mouth tightly shut, and he noticed Eames do the same. There were too many pitfalls here, too much shared history, for them to wing a cover story. But Arthur seemed to be going with the (heavily edited) truth. 

“What about her husband?” Peter pushed. “You believed him?” 

“I did.” Arthur’s gaze was steady and even, and, even years later, filled with an unshakable conviction. 

“Even though all the evidence screamed he was guilty?” Peter leaned forward, his fingers digging into the table. “It’s the strangest thing. You disappear, you and Cobb. You two are wiped cleaner than if someone had followed behind you, sweeping up. But they’re not.” He jerked a finger in Neal and Eames’s direction. “Heists, forgeries, border crossing -- there’s a trail, and it’s messy. It’s messy enough that it’s obviously just the two of them, no other associates. Until the Louvre.” 

“Still out of your jurisdiction,” Neal muttered, but Peter wanted more. “It was a bad two years,” he finally said.

Peter’s eyes fixed back on Arthur. “You believed Dominick enough to leave your family and follow him for two years, doing god knows what. Protecting them from it,” he said, and Arthur nodded, but it didn’t sound like a question. “Alright, then,” Peter said. “Two years to start with. Who from then would want you in jail?”

* * *

Unfortunately, it was too long a list to compile in one meal, even with the most accommodating server. As Eames pointed out, they were both implicated -- it could be anyone who wanted to hurt either of them. And (Neal’s stomach twisted horribly when Peter added this,) it could be anyone who wanted to reach Neal through them. 

It was a very long list. 

Luckily, Mozzie pointed out, Neal had an excellent wine rack to keep them company. 

Some, at least, were easy to write off, and Neal crossed Keller off the list with a sigh of relief. He’d been too active in Uganda (doing what, Neal didn’t want to know, none of the options were savory) and though the intricate game had all the hallmarks of his kind of con, all intelligence said he was too busy dodging the Russians to be pulling the strings from that far. 

Arthur and Eames, cordially, provided a written list. If Neal noticed a few names he’d have added, he said nothing, allowing them to keep their secrets. Anyway, he enjoyed watching Peter’s eyebrows get higher with every name he read. 

Footage of the heist came in from the Met, clearly meant to incriminate Eames, but it cleared him instead. “There!” He said triumphantly, pointing. “My left leg is exactly three centimeters shorter than my right. Broke my femur. No way to fake _that._ ” An examination and biometrics bore him out. 

“That gives us a timeline,” Peter said thoughtfully. “If you broke your leg four years ago, whoever staged this must have been operating on information older than that.” 

Everything else was good -- worryingly good. The thief kept his face turned from the camera, but imitated Eames exactly in mannerisms and appearance. He was even wearing the sort of outfit that, Arthur said, had always been bound to link Eames to _something_ one day, if just hideous taste. “I think I owned that shirt,” Eames said, watching the film again. 

If it hadn’t already been obvious, from the way the thieves had penetrated Saito’s shield and set up Eames, they were dealing with experts. 

Neal was more interested in learning when Eames had broken his leg, and why he hadn’t heard about it, but both men waved him off. “You were in prison,” Arthur said. “We didn’t want to worry you.” 

None of them missed the way Peter’s jaw twitched. But he said nothing. 

“We’re a day behind,” Peter said finally, with something like guilt in his voice.

“Undoubtedly, they planned it that way.” Arthur let just enough compassion creep into his voice to soothe away what Peter had let leak. Neal didn’t know if Peter heard it, but he knew Arthur well enough that he did, and he saw Eames note it too. After all, anyone else might have spent more time chasing Arthur and Eames, letting the real criminal get further ahead. 

“The day wasn’t a total loss. You’ve got men looking for the Matisse, right?” Neal asked. 

“Looking, but not finding. Not yet, anyway.” Peter set his jaw with determination. “Tomorrow, we go see Eames.” 

“That is intensely disturbing to hear,” Eames informed him, his voice dry.

* * *

“You know, I had a copy-cat once,” Neal said, leaning over to murmur in Eames’s ear. Peter, in the driver’s seat, groaned. 

The Taurus was exactly like Peter. Neal hadn’t missed the similarities, nor the irony, before. Reliable. Plain. A bit rough on the outside, but quick and, if you counted the dashboard computer, smart. Employed by the FBI. 

The Taurus was definitely a better driver and, all things considered, Neal had been more than happy to cede his customary seat in front to Arthur. His father was now gripping the dashboard while trying to look like he was doing anything _but_ gripping the dashboard. Either he’d gone soft, not used to the busy streets of New York anymore, or Peter was in especially fine form. Neal was betting on the latter. 

Eames sat across the back seat from him, drumming his fingers against the window ledge. Neal said, “Actually, a whole group of them. It was a team of criminology students. Their professor taught a class on me.” 

Eames flashed him a quick grin, a spark of familiar interest in his eyes, and his grin only widened when Peter groaned. Peter said, “I caught them, just like I caught you. Are you ever going to let it go?” 

“Probably not.” Neal leaned back in his seat. 

“So the younger Mr. Eames has built on my reputation, hmm?” Eames returned his gaze out the window. His fingers resumed their drumming. “That’s a bit uncouth, taking a man’s identity like that.”

“I’ve heard that there’s no honor among thieves,” Peter said, slamming on the breaks with enough force to throw them all against their seatbelts. The sudden jerk was enough to kill any retort any of them might have come up with. 

“Well, I think it’s pretty rude,” Neal said as an aside to his father. 

“What are we dealing with here?” Arthur, always business, managed to sound coolly disinterested. Neal had no doubt he was running risk analyses in his head. 

And Peter wasn’t going to answer; that much was clear from the sideways glance he sent the man. “Let me and my agents worry about that,” he said. 

Neal leaned forward again. “Small time,” he offered. “He appeared a few years after I came back to New York, about the time Peter started catching on to me. Got a few good scores by playing off your name, Eames, but once it became clear he wasn’t you -- and in the same league, not even close -- people cooled off. He likes to think big of himself, but really it’s Rolexes, fake jewelry, that kind of stuff. If his product were a little worse he wouldn’t be able to get his hands on anything more than bootleg DVDs.” 

“Heard they’re getting pretty good traffic in those, these days,” Eames offered. 

“You can find a buyer for Transformers 8 on any subway platform, but you have to practically beg to get people interested in art. It’s a travesty,” Neal said. 

“We’re all very sad for you art thieves,” Peter said, grumpy, irritable, and amused despite himself. Neal could hear it. 

Again, Arthur directed them back onto target. “What’s our approach with Eames?” he asked. 

Neal couldn’t see Peter’s grin from where he sat. He didn’t need to. He heard it, when Peter said, “I think you’ll enjoy this.”

* * *

There were always people selling things outside Grand Central. The young man loitering just to the north of the station was no exception. 

“Oh, good lord,” Eames murmured, taking in the artfully ruffled hair and the ill-fitting dark suit. “You didn’t tell me that I was replaced by a scruffy, emo _twit._ ” 

Arthur snorted, and Neal shrugged. “Consider it extra motivation,” he said. “Go do your thing.” 

Eames went.

“Teddy,” he called to the young man, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders resting back with deceptive ease. No one sauntered quite like Eames. Neal trailed a few feet after, close enough to hear, far enough back not to be linked. “I was hoping to have a word with you about an item you acquired some time back.” 

Teddy Eames (or, as Arthur had begun referring to him, Junior) was not an idiot. His eyes hurriedly scanned the plaza, looking to see who had made note of the greeting. Looking for a way out. 

“An item?” Eames prompted, giving a smile that showed far too many teeth. 

Teddy shoved his hands into his pockets with ill grace, slouching his shoulders and shrugging. “Do I know you?” he asked, although there was no way he couldn’t recognize the man whose life he’d tried to steal. As if he could play stupid and talk his way out of it. 

Eames held out his hand, the very picture of cordiality. “Theodore Eames,” he said. 

Teddy tried to break out. He spun and ran -- right into Peter’s chest. The FBI agent looked almost bored as he grabbed the young man by the shoulder. “I think you were having a conversation with Mr. Eames, Mr. Eames,” he said pointedly. Neal moved up beside his father. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you make a much better Theodore Eames,” he said. 

“As if I would ever go by _Teddy._ ” Eames groused back. 

“You’d never be that undignified,” said Neal in agreement. 

“You two coming, or you want to hoof it back?” Peter called as he hustled their would-be fence toward the Taurus. 

Eames looked to Neal. “Do what you want, but I’m not walking thirty blocks in Ferragamos. Arthur would kill me.” 

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Neal slung an arm around Eames and steered him back toward the car. Eames was whistling.


	3. Chapter 3

It turned out Teddy Eames (Junior)’s real name was Martin Block, and he, like Neal, had fallen out of the New York foster system as an adolescent. Unlike Neal, he hadn’t done well for himself. 

Peter flipped back and forth between pages of the file. They’d dumped Martin in the same room Eames had been stuck in two days ago, and were leaving him to stew. Unlike his namesake, who had been completely unflustered by an FBI interrogation room, Martin was beginning to sweat. 

“Plenty of gang affiliations,” Peter said. “Did you have any aliases in that arena, Eames?” 

“A few,” Eames said easily, evasively. 

“Could be where he got his hands on your identity,” Peter said. He was fishing, trying to draw out more information, and it was painfully obvious. None of the other three were fooled. 

“If I may,” Arthur interceded, “How he adopted Eames’s identity isn’t the issue at hand. We should focus on the Matisse.” 

Martin glared sullenly at the one-way glass wall until Peter entered. “I remember you,” he said.

Peter shrugged. “I tried to bust you for selling stolen goods. It didn’t take.” No harm letting Martin know they remembered him, too.

Martin jerked his chin at the glass. “Caffrey out there?” he asked. 

Peter’s back was to them, but they could see his reaction on the monitors mounted outside the room. He kept his face bland, looking only vaguely interested. “Who?” 

“I’m not an idiot.” Martin glared. “First I try to do a deal he brings me, and I end up owing him a favor. Then you show up to arrest me and he just happens to be there? You’ve got him in your pocket.”

“Maybe,” Peter said. “I’m more interested in that deal he brought you. Trafficking in fake rolexes, weren’t you?” Peter reached out, thumbing the intercom on the table and speaking into it. “Jones, can you add possession and dealing in counterfeit goods to the charges you’re filing against Mr. Block?” Then, he added, as an aside to Martin, “Did you know that the statute of limitations on identity theft is extended indefinitely if the victim is outside the state at the time the theft took place?” 

“Alright, alright!” Martin was a career criminal, and not a complete idiot. He knew a bad deal when he heard one. He knew how to fish for a better one, and he didn’t beat around the bush when he got to asking. “What did you really haul me in here for?” 

Peter pushed a photo of the stolen painting across the table. “A Matisse went missing from the Met a few days ago. I want to know if it’s come across your desk.” 

“A Matisse.” It was a statement, not a question, and Martin took the photo, then slid it back.“You’d think something like that would turn up in the papers.” 

“Well, we did a pretty good job of keeping this one quiet.” Peter dropped the picture back into the folder. “You heard anything about it?” 

“Maybe.” Martin’s eyes were surprisingly cold. “If I did, you’d let this little misunderstanding blow over?” 

Peter shrugged and said, “I might be willing to look the other way on the small stuff.” 

Neal recognized the look too late. It was calculating, the kind of look a man got when he knew he had the upper hand. Martin slouched back in his chair, his hands going into his pockets. “I know who took your painting. It was Mozzie.” 

“Mozzie.” It was Peter’s turn for his voice to go flat. 

“Yeah, you know. Tiny, bald, follows Caffrey around. Bolts the second he smells a cotton-poly blend.”

There was very little Peter could say. He’d walked right into it. He stood, closing his file. “I’ll take that information back and see what I can do,” he said, leaving the room. He joined Neal, Arthur, and Eames outside a moment later. “Obviously he’s trying to mislead us,” he said. If Neal didn’t know better, he’d say there was concern there, as if he thought Arthur and Eames might have been convinced. A federal agent concerned for Mozzie, that was a first of epic proportions. 

The thing was, while Eames and Arthur weren’t friendly with Mozzie the way Neal was, they also trusted him. To a point. “Obviously,” Eames snorted, rolling his eyes. “You think he has it?” Eames asked. It made sense, after all. If Martin had the painting, or thought he could broker a sale for it, he’d want to protect his interest. But it didn’t address why he’d frame Eames in the first place.

“Could be,” Peter said. “Maybe he felt threatened by you, thought he could eliminate the competition. But I don’t think so. He doesn’t have the connections to leak those files.“

“Maybe he got lucky,” Arthur said, though even he didn’t sound like he believed it. “The impulse to protect yourself is a strong one.” 

“And with a major heist--” 

“Alleged heist,” Neal and Eames said at the same time. Peter glared.

“--coming in, he’d want to make sure there was only one Teddy Eames in play.” Peter looked at Eames, frowning. “Is Theodore even your first name?” 

Eames grinned. “He made an educated guess.” 

Peter couldn’t be put off that easily. “And?” 

“He was close.” Neal said. Eames and Arthur stared at him, and he shrugged. Okay, maybe not that close. “It has an ‘e’ in it, at least.”

* * *

Martin Block was no more eager to talk after they let him brood in the interrogation room for a few more hours. “I can’t hold him here forever,” Peter said. “He annoys me. And there’s a thing called the Constitution.” 

“He claims he’s a Brit, no Constitutional protection,” Neal pointed out. Peter sent him a look that was less than impressed. 

“What if he’s trying to salvage a deal?” Arthur asked, leaning back in a chair. He and Eames had practically taken up residence in the office, much to Peter’s dismay. He muttered almost constantly about how it went against policy, to have them interfering with the investigation, but didn’t do much to stop them from being there or handling evidence -- or from bonding with his team. Arthur was taking Diana shopping over the weekend. 

Neal wasn’t jealous. Or maybe he was, but just a little. It wasn’t like he ever got to take Diana shopping. 

Peter considered it. “You think he’s fencing?” 

“Could be,” Arthur said, flipping back and forth, idly, between pages in the file. “He doesn’t have the skill set to steal it himself, and he doesn’t have the money to buy it outright, but he has connections to the right sort of people.” 

“Barely. A Matisse is a huge step up for him,” Neal said. “But he wants to climb. It’s why he modeled himself after one of the city’s best. If he were offered this chance, no way he’d pass it up.”

“Or maybe he’s just trying to save his own skin.” Neal recognized Peter’s tone: cynical, but also thoughtful. He was playing devil’s advocate, looking for snags and holes. Sounding out the idea.

“This feels personal,” Neal said. “They’re gunning for Eames and Arthur, they can’t leave him out of it. It’s too much a coincidence.” 

“Alright.” Peter decided all at once, and looked satisfied to have done so, crossing his arms and sitting down at the conference table. Out of habit, he looked to Neal. “What’s our play?” 

Neal shrugged, twirling a pen between his fingers. Eames had taught him that, although Eames used a poker chip to keep his fingers busy. “Let him go. Se where he takes us.” 

“He’s spooked,” Peter said. “He’s not gonna go back to his contact if he thinks he’s been made.”

“No, this is his first big sale.” Neal was sure, now, that he understood Martin enough to predict this. “If we let him think he got away clean, he’ll move heaven and earth to make this drop happen.” 

“So we make him think we got away clean.” Peter grinned.

* * *

Peter made his way back into the interrogation room, taking the seat across from Martin. He slid a stack of picture across the table. If Martin did have the Matisse, or knew who had it, they couldn’t provide too much proof. They couldn’t contradict what he knew as fact. They needed just enough to make Mozzie look guilty without showing anything at all. 

Luckily, Neal knew all the high end fences and art dealers in the city. And Peter happened to have a large database of surveillance photos to pull from. 

“Mozzie would have kittens if he knew the FBI was in possession of fabricated evidence linking him to a stolen Matisse,” Eames said, with great satisfaction. While he didn’t believe Mozzie would set him up, Neal knew, he wasn’t so big a man as to not enjoy the irony of it. 

Actually, Neal was enjoying the irony of it. It was kind of impossible not to. “You can do amazing things with photoshop these days,” Neal said. 

Martin looked over the pictures, pausing. Bite, Neal thought, staring through the one-way glass. Come on. Maybe Mozzie does have something he’s showing around. Sell him on the Matisse. 

Because for this to work, it was crucial Martin believe he’d assisted the FBI. He had to walk out of the interrogation room thinking he’d thrown them so far off the scent that they’d take months getting back to the real trail. He needed to go back to his client and push the sale. You want this, Neal thought. It’s right there in front of you. Take it. 

Eventually, Martin put the pictures down and looked at Peter. His eyes were shadowed, but he gave an easy, careless shrug. “So you believe me now?” 

Peter didn’t jump in too fast. He let it play out, shrugging one of his own shoulders in turn. “I think you’re right. The little guy’s got something to hide.” There was a moment where Martin waited, his shoulders set. It wasn’t enough. Neal wouldn’t have settled for it. “Go on,” Peter said. “Get out of here.” 

Martin didn’t wait to be asked twice. He grabbed his jacket and made for the door. The next time Neal saw him, an hour later, he was arguing with Kelly over the cell phones and wallets he’d had confiscated. 

Apparently, it wasn’t FBI policy to release stolen property or false identification they’d confiscated, even if the suspect wasn’t being charged. 

Peter stopped beside Neal, watching with satisfaction as Martin almost ran from the building. “You know what this means,” he said, and there was a cheerful glint in his eye. An evil, cheerful glint. 

“No,” Neal said. “No, Peter, please. Why do this to me? What did I do?” 

“You did something, Neal. I might not always know about it, but you did something.” Peter grinned, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He said, “We’ve got a stakeout.” 

“This is an unnecessary stakeout,” Neal said. “You know, I’ve watched TV. They don’t ever have this many stakeouts.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t make for very good television, I guess,” Peter said. 

“I think you like punishing me,” Neal said. 

“Oh, I do,” Peter assured him. “To the van, gentlemen!”

* * *

Neal tried to convince Arthur and Eames that the van was awful. He tried to tell them just how bad it was. They didn’t believe him. 

“That’s an... interesting smell,” Arthur remarked as they rolled out of the parking lot. 

“I believe I may cry,” Eames said. 

Neal was too much of a gentleman to say ‘I told you so.’ Also, that would involve opening his mouth, something he was trying desperately not to do. 

“How long could Harry Houdini hold his breath?” he eventually murmured to Eames. 

“Investing in breath training?” Eames asked, his eyes light. 

“It might be worth it,” Neal said. 

Peter delighted in tearing into his sandwich, as if nothing was wrong. 

It was, when all was said and done, the longest stakeout Neal had ever had the misfortune of accompanying Peter on. They waited outside Martin’s apartment for three days while the man laid low, the bland utility truck growing warm and ripe in the hot sun. There was cell phone activity from Martin almost constantly. Jones monitored it, playing clips for them to hear in the back of the van. Neal had been right: he was hungry for this sale. He wanted to push it. But his buyer was spooked at the thought of FBI involvement. 

“He needs another push,” Peter said, mid-afternoon on the third day. The sun hit the south side of the truck and heated it up like an oven, the air conditioner unable to keep up. Arthur had acquiesced long ago, stripping down to his waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves. Eventually, Neal did the same. 

“Maybe we could give it to him,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “What if he started getting pressure from the other direction?” 

“Let him know the FBI is catching on, that they’re moving off Moz?” Neal’s eyebrows went up. “It could work. But I don’t think he’d believe anything I fed him.” 

“Then not you. We make it official.” Arthur was rolling his sleeves down as he spoke, his fingers expertly re-fastening his cuff links. He nodded at Peter. “You put the heat on him. Then I come in as a buyer.” 

“Alright,” Peter said. He glanced back at Neal, who was sitting between Jones and Eames. “You, you stay. No funny business.” 

Neal tried his best to look like the thought of his FBI boss and his CIA father together on an op wasn’t terrifying. “I’ll be an angel,” he assured them. The door rolled open and shut. Arthur disappeared around the corner, and Peter took the stairs two at a time to Martin’s apartment. 

“You weren’t lying when you said your suit was intense, I’ll give you that,” Eames said, his voice low enough to avoid notice. Jones, listening to the chatter from Martin’s cell, wasn’t paying attention anyway. 

“Not my choice to bring him in, you opened that door yourself,” Neal said. Eames grinned, and didn’t try to deny it. Neal felt obliged to add, “He’s not always this harsh. We’ve had a few differences over the last few months.” Such as Neal allegedly making off with billions of dollars in stolen Nazi artwork. 

“So I’ve heard,” Eames said, in a tone that promised further discussion later. 

“Peter has Martin,” Jones said, pulling his headphones away from his ears. “He’s turning up the temp now.” 

Neal looked sideways at Eames. “You think those walls Arthur built around us are still holding up?” he asked. Eames looked speculative. 

“Your Martin the type to track down old neighbors, the like, when he assumes an alias?” 

“He’s not that thorough,” Neal said. 

“We’re good.” 

Peter left Martin’s apartment building, veered toward the tree Arthur was standing under. Neal gauged it at just clear of the sightlines from Martin’s building, watching the two men talk. 

“There’s something you don’t see every day,” Eames said with a laugh. 

“It’s one for the record books.” Neal almost laughed, himself. But not quite. His voice stayed soft as he said, “You know, I’m starting to get it. When Martin came up in our investigation, using your name... every time we came across a British national in a case, I wondered if the walls were coming down.” 

Eames was too smart to pretend he didn’t understand what Neal was saying. “You’d have to speak to Arthur about that,” he said. “He was the legitimate one, he got to stay at home and worry,” 

“Well, I remember it differently,” Neal said. He jerked his chin at the two men outside. “Think they’re talking about us?” 

“I don’t know if it’s more terrifying to think that they are, or they aren’t,” Eames said.

* * *

“How long?” Arthur asked. He deferred to Peter only in that it was his investigation. He didn’t have any doubts about how long he would wait.

“Twenty minutes at least. Give him some time to stew,” Peter said. Since Arthur agreed, he didn’t argue. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Neal -- he opened it and scanned it quickly. “Martin tried his buyer already and got shut down. He’s putting out feelers now, anywhere he can think of.” Arthur laughed. “Neal was right. He’s desperate.” 

“Could be he’s got the painting,” Peter said thoughtfully. “This goes south for him, he won’t just have the FBI breathing down his neck, he’ll have an angry seller. He needs the sale, and now.” 

Another text came through to both of them. It read, “Wisner Gallery. No close connections. Diverting the call to your cell.” 

“Wait for it,” Peter advised. “Let him sweat.” 

“The Wisner’s got to be pretty low on his list, unless things have changed in the last fifteen years,” Arthur said. “I doubt he’ll get around to calling them right away.” 

“We’ve got time,” Peter said. After a brief pause, he added, “You know, I don’t remember you visiting Neal in prison.” 

Arthur looked over. He highly doubted Peter forgot anything, and he was sure Peter had a full log of every visitor Neal had received in those almost-four years. “I go by a lot of names,” he said. 

“Oh, you do. And you’re very good. I won’t bet you on the call logs. But you never visited. I checked.” 

Of course he had. Arthur’s gaze flicked down to his cell, then back up to the apartment. He very carefully did not look even once at Peter. “It was a delicate situation.” he said. 

“I remember,” Peter said dryly. “I helped craft it.”

“I know,” Arthur said. “I know much more than you think about that time.”

“You at the CIA do love to spy,” Peter said. Arthur ignored the jab. 

“There was a lot that led to you catching him. You’re very good, Agent Burke, but you’re better now. If things had gone a little differently, you might not have gotten our boy. It was his first time out alone, and he was wild, but all kids go through that. And he hadn’t had an easy time of it for a while before, that was my and Eames’s fault. But if he hadn’t been chasing Kate --” Pierre Cardin clothed shoulders rose and fell. “We tried to warn him.”

“So that’s it?” Peter had been trying hard to keep his temper,but he felt it rising up now. “You tried to warn him, but oh well, he got caught, so you shut him out?” 

“We never shut him out,” Arthur said firmly. “But it goes both ways. Neal could have come to us -- he could _always_ come to us, but he didn’t.” Arthur sighed. “He made a lot of mistakes in those years, Agent Burke, but they were his to make. And that’s fine. Your children are supposed to make mistakes.” His tone implied, heavily, that it was a parent thing and he didn’t expect Peter to understand. Which was just fine, since Peter _didn’t_ understand. Oh, the concept, sure, but they were talking about maximum security prison. 

“Say what you will about wild youths and sowed oats, most kids don’t end up doing time for bond forgery,” Peter said. Arthur hid a sardonic grin. 

“We are what our parents make of us, Agent Burke,” he said. His phone rang. Peter sensed there was more to this conversation -- much more, that he’d want to say, but their time was limited by the vibrating cell in his hands. “You may not have seen us, Agent Burke, but please, for your own sake, don’t delude yourself into thinking we abandoned him,” Arthur said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a painting to buy.”

* * *

It was the perfect setup for a sting. How else could you get the buyer, the thief, and the fence in the same room? Martin hadn’t seen Arthur at the bust; Arthur’d stayed in the background, and the walls around his identity held. There was nothing to link him to Eames, no reason to suspect him -- except, of course, that he was looking to buy stolen art. 

Whoever had stolen the painting in the first place, they had to know that they were using a second class fence. Most of the time, it was a ploy to avoid attention. But if Neal had to guess, he’d say it was to twist the knife. The sale of the Matisse was secondary in this. Hurting Arthur and Eames, that was their villain’s primary goal. 

But that didn’t change the fact that, whoever he was, he was in possession of a painting, hot in every sense of the world. That was about nine million dollars wrapped in butcher paper, and he would be a fool to trust Martin with that kind of money. He wasn’t a fool. He insisted on being at the exchange. 

Peter kept his eyes on the door. The folks at the Wisner Gallery had been happy to let the FBI use the premises, once they’d heard what was involved. Apparently, there were still law-abiding folk in New York. “A thief, a fence, and ex-CIA walk into an art gallery...” he muttered. 

“I’ve heard that one. The punch line’s weak,” Eames said. 

“Knock knock.” Neal said. 

Eames and Peter both said, “Who’s there,” then glared at each other. 

“Six armed FBI agents, a forger, and a criminal informant in the back of a utility van.” 

Their glares switched from each other to him. 

“I thought it was funny,” Neal said. 

Neal and Eames had been closed out on this one, unable to listen to the conversation in the bugged gallery. “I’m not risking it,” Peter said. “You’re too involved. If this comes away with your fingerprints on it, we won’t be able to charge him.” So they sat in the van, unable to hear what was going on, unable to do anything but trade bad jokes.

Arthur went in first -- after all, it was supposed to be his place of business. He had the keys. Teddy arrived a minute later, and after him came another man, taller and older, with greying hair. He kept his back turned to the utility van and all their cameras -- (Damn it, man, come on,” Peter muttered.) Neal couldn’t see his face. 

Neal and Eames couldn’t hear when things started to go wrong, but they saw the fall-out. “Go,” Peter shouted, waving agents from the truck. The agents poured out and closed in from a dozen other spots, dressed in plain clothes, disguised as commuters, joggers, even homeless milling about on the street corners. The three men in the building scattered. Neal saw Arthur’s grey suit heading down an alley, Martin’s dark, rumpled coat trailing after him. They, at least, ran straight into the arms of waiting agents. 

In the end, none of it mattered. 

Peter came back to the van and slammed his hands down. “We were so close --” The brief moment of rage was followed by a deep breath. “Jones, comb that video, I want his face. Diana, you go back to headquarters. Take Martin and the Matisse, get the paperwork sorted out on both of them.”

“You got the Matisse?” Neal stood, his fingers curling reflexively. “I could authenticate it right now --” 

“I’d sooner leave you alone, unguarded, with a million dollars in unmarked bills,” Peter said. Neal shrugged and ducked his head to the side. Fair enough. 

“Peter,” Jones called. “I got a face,”

“Print it up,” Peter said. “Everyone, I want you taking the neighborhood in a grid. Show this face around. Someone’s seen this man, let’s find out who.” 

Copies of the photo moved from agent to agent, and eventually, back to Neal. He didn’t quite manage to stifle the sound he made. Peter heard, and raised his head, his eyes flashing sharp. 

“You know him, Neal?” 

“I do,” Neal said, proud of himself for sounding mostly calm. “His name is Robert Moreau. He’s Kate’s father.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: minor character death, violence.

They made it back to FBI headquarters quickly, with a tense silence in the van. Peter was quiet and dark, brooding, his usual reaction to losing a suspect. Neal was more than a little shellshocked. It wasn’t just that he’d never expected to see Robert Moreau again. There was the inescapable knowledge that Peter had, as usual, been right. This wasn’t something Arthur and Eames had brought down on their own heads. No matter that they’d never blame him for it; it was him. It had always been him. 

It had started out fine, Arthur explained, low-voiced, on the drive back. Robert was jumpy, but no jumpier than any thief with a multi-million dollar score in the hands of an inexperienced fence. Martin had been completely oblivious to Arthur’s identity, eager just to make the sale. He wanted the credit for the sale, just like Neal had predicted. He thought this was his ticket into the big leagues.

And then, something had tipped Robert off. He’d put it together fast, Arthur admitted, with what Neal knew was grudging respect. Seen the utility van, the bugged pen on Arthur’s desk. Any dozen little things, innocuous on their own, but Robert Moreau was good. He saw the whole picture. He bolted. He lost the Matisse, but he got away clean. 

“Nine million dollars,” Peter groused. “Who runs and leaves nine million dollars?” 

Neal shrugged. “This job has never been about the money. The painting’s a beacon, Peter, it led us to him in the first place. He’s not dumb enough to make the same mistake twice.” 

Speaking up had probably been a mistake. Peter turned on him, his eyes narrowing. 

“You told me you met Kate working for Adler. You told me you came to New York when you were seventeen. Damnit, Neal, was any of it true?” 

“Yes!” Frustrated, Neal raked his fingers through his hair. “It was all true, I just -- left out a few details.” 

“Fill them in now,” Peter advised, his voice dark. 

“Robert Moreau’s a fence, a good one,” Neal said. “I worked with him before, when Alex wasn’t available. I knew about Kate, but I never met her. Robert had mob connections in his past -- Milwaukee, not Detroit, that’s why I got him through Alex and not Mozzie. Kate’s mother was a waitress. They had an affair, but it fell apart after a few years, and Robert moved to New York. He and Kate were almost completely estranged. It was down to birthday cards and photos when I finally met Kate. I put it together, Moreau’s not that common a name, but I couldn’t let Kate know I knew until she learned who _I_ really was. After Adler split. Everything else I told you was true.” 

Peter glared at him, the distrust that had been simmering between them for weeks coming to the surface -- but eventually he let it go, the tension bleeding away. “It makes sense,” He admitted. “If he was looking for Adler, the mess with the sub drew attention. He could have tracked Adler to you --”

“And followed me to right here.” Neal’s stomach gave another twist. 

“Organized crime and corrupt government go together like any metaphor of your choice,” Arthur said. “Moreau’s been hiding for almost as long as we have, and he’s almost as good at it. Those kinds of connections could account for how he got my file.” 

“Oh, he’s got help. And he’s been planning this for a while,” Peter agreed. “Probably since Kate died.” 

“I was steps away when that plane blew, Peter,” Neal said. His voice was soft, his eyes downcast. More grief than he’d shown in the year since Kate’s death, at least publicly. “Can you blame him?” 

“No,” Peter said. “I think I understand perfectly.” And there was an edge in his voice, directed at Arthur, a hangover from their previous conversation. 

“What do we do now?” Eames had been silent; now he spoke, calling them back to the task at hand. Maybe it was what he’d said to Neal before, that worrying had always been Arthur’s province. Eames was always on the wrong side of the law, the one getting worried about. Maybe it was just that he was out of practice. 

They’d all gotten soft, Neal realized. He’d known it before, but it was becoming more and more apparent how much they’d changed. How much he’d changed. If Adler hadn’t gotten involved, if Kate had stayed alive and he’d stayed in prison, he’d have been out by now. They could have settled down, sold off some of his resources and bought a house, maybe. Robert Moreau could be hassling them for grandkids instead of attacking Neal through his parents. 

Or maybe he’d have fallen back into his old habits. Maybe Kate would have. Maybe one or both of them would be back in prison, or on the run, and if it wasn’t Moreau gunning for them, it would be Adler, or any of a dozen other people. Neal didn’t know anymore. He didn’t want to think about the treasure. 

Peter’s voice called him back to the conference room. “We’ve got enough on Moreau to bring him in for the theft of the Matisse. Tack on obstruction and evading arrest, and we should have a battery of lesser charges. That should keep him off the streets for a while.” 

Arthur looked less than pleased by this solution. “His daughter died, I doubt he’ll just accept it and move on,” he said, letting the acid shine through his tone. 

Peter glared right back. “I never said he would. But it’s all we’ve got, _legally._ Unless you have another suggestion.” 

“I was just pointing out that the situation is less than ideal,” Arthur said. 

“So we set up the man hunt, bring him in, and that buys you a few years,” Peter said, looking at Neal. “Specifically, buys you a few years to make your peace with Adler.” 

“Or he tries again and gets arrested again,” Neal said brightly. 

“Yeah, well, let’s not go with that as a plan of action,” Peter advised. “I’ll put out a BOLO, roadblocks, the works. You might as well go home.” 

“I never get to do the manhunts.” Neal tried not to sound too petulant. He thought he succeeded. Judging by the glints of amusement forming in Eames and Arthur’s eyes, he might not have been completely convincing. “You only let me come on the stakeouts.” 

“That is because I am a harsh and cruel master,” Peter said. “Now get out of here.” 

They went obediently. Back to Neal’s place, which, Eames pointed out, had an eminently better wine selection than the FBI office. And they proceeded to wait.

* * *

The day stretched into two, then three, with no sign of Moreau. He’d gone to ground, disappearing without any ripples. Under other circumstances, Neal would have been impressed. The last person he’d seen bury himself so well was Arthur, the two years he’d been on the run with Cobb. 

But these weren’t any other circumstances. Robert was Kate’s father, and in Neal’s book, that would have bought him amnesty. Except he’d moved on two of the only people Neal would kill to protect. It wasn’t lost on Neal how that list seemed to be growing steadily longer with age. 

For their part, Eames and Arthur understood. It went unspoken between the three of them that if things were different, even a little, they’d disappear quietly back to London and leave Moreau to work through his grief in his own way. But without him, there was no-one to tie the Matisse to but Eames. A messy trail of long-buried CIA paperwork led straight to Arthur. It didn’t give them the option of vanishing again, at least not without leaving a trail that would catch the eye of any other law enforcement agency. Neal didn’t like being backed into a corner. His parents weren’t especially fond of it, either. 

On the fourth day, Peter called them back into the office. “This isn’t working,” he said, a wholly unnecessary statement. 

“We noticed.” Days of waiting had made Neal irritable, and if he was shorter than usual with Peter, none of them called him on it. 

“I want to try another approach,” Peter said. 

“If you’ve got one you think will work, I’m all ears.” Neal allowed his tone to convey that he didn’t think another approach would work, nor did he appreciate his time being wasted. Peter ignored his tone, took him at his word, and grinned. 

“Let’s give him what he wants,” Peter said.

* * *

Neal hadn’t anticipated being used as bait. It made sense, strategically, but Neal had a high appreciation for his own skin. He tended to base its value on it being whole and healthy. Maybe he had a slightly higher appreciation for these things than most people (Diana said he was too pretty for his own good, and he knew it) but on the whole, he didn’t think he was unusual. 

“Will you do it?” Peter asked. 

Neal didn’t need to think about his answer. “Of course,” he said. 

Arthur balked at the idea of taking him off anklet. 

“Neal’s worked off anklet before,” Peter said, letting the logic carry his point. “We’ll have him miked and put a GPS unit in his watch. We’ve used this equipment plenty of times. It’s reliable. He’ll never be out of contact.” 

“Set up a meet with Moreau, and why wouldn’t he just hire a sniper?” Arthur argued. “It’s one thing knowing he’s out for you. Walking into a meet is stupid.” 

“He won’t kill me from a distance,” Neal said, absolutely sure of it. “His daughter died. He doesn’t want me to die, he wants me to hurt like he hurts.” 

“ _Lex talionis,_ ” Eames muttered. 

“Fine,” Arthur said. “If we all know that, why would Neal go to him?” 

“Because he’s desperate,” Peter said. “You’ve both been put in precarious positions. So he ditches his anklet and gives Moreau what he wants.” 

“But I don’t understand why,” Arthur said. 

“Moreau knows the FBI is looking for him. He’s going to assume this is a trap. The only way to make it look real --” 

“Is for me to slip my anklet,” Neal said. 

“Neal,” Peter asked, “How long do you think you can duck the full weight of the FBI?” 

Neal gave him a crooked grin. “I’ve got a record to beat,” he said. 

Eames never objected outright, but he became very interested in the FBI’s tracking tech, in the hidey hole Neal arranged, in the meeting site. 

“A sting is a delicate op,” he said. 

“There’s nothing delicate about this,” Peter said. “We have the evidence we need. No fishing. No wires. We just need to flush Moreau.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried,” Neal teased. 

“The last two times you went on the run, you got caught. Your record isn’t what one might call impeccable,” Eames said. 

“Peter won’t be looking for me this time,” Neal said. 

“Peter’s not the only FBI agent to ever bring in a fugitive,” Eames said. 

“He is the only one to bring me in, though.” Neal grinned. 

“Twice,” Peter said.

* * *

Neal said goodbye to his parents. 

He cut his anklet. 

And then he disappeared. 

He’d worked long cons before, even used burned identities. Under some circumstances, they attracted the right sort of attention. Now, though, he hid. He abandoned his rooms at June’s with the feds close behind him. He bought some time by planting just a few hints that he’d gone to Spain -- Barcelona, or maybe Madrid. He got a lot done while they handed the case off to Interpol. 

He put word out through Mozzie that he wanted a meet with Moreau. It didn’t pan out right away, which he’d expected. Moreau didn’t want anymore heat, and Neal, right now, was a small sun. But it got the word into the right circles. Neal knew when word reached Moreau, and he knew that Moreau dismissed it. 

Two weeks went by, and Neal lived out of a dozen hotels with as many different aliases. The few remaining resources he had, he liquidated through Hale and the other few fences he trusted. Mozzie handled several deals for him, discreetly, never letting on who it was receiving the payoffs on the other end. He put word out again that he wanted Moreau. And he waited. 

Eames and Arthur dropped out of sight, too, into a very different world. Where they really went, Neal couldn’t say, but the cover was the real genius of Peter’s plan. To all appearances, they disappeared into the federal prison system. Like Neal, they presented too large a flight risk to go anywhere but the Supermax. Poor behavior insured a loss of privileges -- including phone calls and visitation. If no one ever saw them behind bars, if no one spoke to them there, it was because they’d been transferred to solitary. It made them unreachable to anyone on the outside. 

By arresting them, Peter effectively cut what little remaining power Moreau had. To get them out, Neal would still need to produce Moreau, but in the meantime it afforded them a measure of safety. Moreau had no need to launch any further schemes, there was no fear of his evidence surfacing on someone other than Peter’s desk. 

Neither of them contacted Neal, and he didn’t attempt to find their real location. Moreau was watching him. Moreau still believed this was an elaborate FBI sting, and he was waiting for Neal to tip his hand. He’d found Neal by following Adler right to him; if Neal led Moreau to his supposedly incarcerated fathers, the entire plan would unravel. 

He avoided Arthur and Eames, and he avoided Peter. The marshalls combed the city. They set up roadblocks and hung wanted posters. The FBI did what government did best; they made a great show of accomplishing nothing. 

Another month passed. Moreau took the bait. Neal got word through an intermediary that he was ready to meet. 

Neal sent back a time and place: nine PM, at the Cloisters, Wednesday night. 

Peter was monitoring the Cloisters every Wednesday at nine PM. Or at least, Neal hoped he was. It had been six weeks since they’d made this plan. Any number of things could have changed or gone wrong. He’d been completely closed out, by design, and if the plan had changed, he wouldn’t get any warning. 

He’d just have to hope the plan hadn’t changed.

* * *

The Cloisters were sufficiently eerie at night. Technically, the grounds had closed four hours ago. That fact had very little bearing on Neal’s ability to get in. Moreau, he assumed, could handle himself. He was undoubtedly aided by the fact that the museum had agreed to disable some of their usual security protocols, trusting the FBI to insure that nothing was stolen. 

Of course, that also meant that they were trusting Neal Caffrey, off anklet, around five thousand works of art from medieval Europe. Out of decency, he made the full recommended donation.

He moved through the shadowed gardens, his feet near silent on the crushed gravel pathways. This had always been one of his favorite spots in the city. A little hodge-podge of Europe, stirred up and served with a helping of medieval religion. When he’d been very young, he hadn’t known that this place existed. He wasn’t sure he’d have appreciated it, if he had. It wasn’t like the Met, which, if nothing else, was warm and sprawling, with many places to stay out of sight. 

He’d liked it well enough after he’d come to live with Arthur and Eames, but he hadn’t fully appreciated it. Why travel so far, he’d wondered, for such a small museum? Especially when they’d lived steps away from a collection of artwork that rivaled the National Gallery. 

He’d traveled a lot, since then. He’d seen the ruins of monasteries this stonework had been pulled from. He’d even tried his hand at some replicas himself. He felt like he deserved to be here. 

Of course, for everything Neal knew about the various relics housed here, Robert Moreau knew more. Neal remembered hearing Kate tell him about how, as a child, her father had driven her to Chicago to visit the Art Institute and made her stand in front of _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte._ She’d claimed it had been hours, but with a child’s sense of time. It could have been minutes, or it could have been the whole day. She remembered loving the polka dots and the way the colors blended into each other when she stepped further back. She liked the monkey. She’d left that day wanting to be a painter, and thus, her art education had begun -- until her father had left.

It wasn’t just that the collection at the Cloisters was largely religious. This was as close to holy ground as either of them were likely to come. They moved toward each other, keeping a safe distance, respectful of the edges of the path and the gardens beyond. Neither of them would want to do anything that risked the welfare of the art. If Neal had a chance of getting out of this alive, he thought it was here. 

“Robert,” Neal said, looking through the darkness at the shadowed form. 

“Neal,” Robert said. 

And they were off to a fantastic start. 

“You’ve been working pretty hard to get my attention,” Neal said, standing as he usually did -- hands in pockets, his hip turned out, accentuating the line of his suit. Even if the full effect was lost on Robert, the ease would show in his silhouette.

“You’re hard to get in touch with,” Robert said. 

Neal hadn’t planned on a conversation with this man. When Moreau showed up, the FBI would move in. That was the plan. Assuming they were here. “You could have just left me a message,” Neal said. 

“That wouldn’t have had quite the effect I wanted,” Moreau said. The man was an excellent fence for a reason -- he matched Neal’s posture with his own easy stance, kept their height level, used the same offhanded tone. Each was a trick Neal recognized from his own repertoire: Everything about the man said ‘We’re the same, you and I. You can trust me. I’m like you.’ 

If Moreau hadn’t tried (and theoretically succeeded) in putting his parents in jail, Neal might almost have believed him. 

If Moreau would move his hand from his coat pocket, where Neal was almost sure he was hiding a gun, Neal would believe him even more. 

“You blame me for what happened to Kate,” Neal said. 

“You’re responsible for what happened to Kate.” Moreau’s tone was still gentle, like he was explaining this to a child who wasn’t capable of understanding the answer they’d asked for. 

“I didn’t put the dynamite on that plane. I was supposed to be on that plane.” 

“You made her into a thief,” Moreau said. “I left to keep her out of this world, and you brought her right back in.” 

“Vincent Adler brought her right back in,” Neal said, “When he deceived her for years, and then took her money, leaving her with nothing. All I did was give her an option. She made her own choice.” He sounded so good, he almost believed himself. 

“There’s only one thing I want to know, Neal,” Moreau said. His hand didn’t move in his pocket, or at least Neal didn’t see it move. Moreau was too good for that. But in the stillness of an herb garden at night, the sound of a gun cocking was impossible to hide. So Moreau didn’t bother. 

He didn’t draw, not yet, but he could at any point. Or maybe he’d just fire through the coat. Neal hated guns, but he was still an excellent shot. Moreau loved guns, and Neal wasn’t willing to take the risk on his aim. 

“Do you miss her?” Moreau asked. 

“Yes,” Neal said simply. “Every day.”

Moreau drew and aimed in one smooth motion. He was almost as fast as Dianna. 

The courtyard flooded with light. Someone called, “Gun!” and there was a series of clacks as a dozen more safeties came off, each one on a gun leveled at Moreau. 

“FBI,” Peter shouted. “Drop the gun, Robert.” 

In some situations, it was protocol to refer to a perp by his first name. It gave a sense of familiarity between agent and criminal. Made the agent seem more human by comparison. It was especially useful in hostage situations. Neal realized for the first time that this could be considered a hostage situation. 

He’d never heard Peter try to identify with a criminal before, especially not an armed one who was pointing a gun at a member of Peter’s team. 

Neal realized, then, what Peter already knew, and he hit the ground and rolled just seconds before the first shot rang out. 

It was followed by a dozen more, and Neal stayed low. Moreau had gotten off three or four rounds before the agents began firing, and they’d all gone high of Neal. Moreau hadn’t been so lucky. He was a good shot -- a very good shot, Neal realized unhappily, fingering a gouge in the ground just inches away. The dirt was still hot from the bullet. 

Moreau was good. An FBI team, trained at Quantico, was better. 

Neal tried very, very hard not to look shaken as he stood. Peter was there, offering him a hand. 

“Is he --” 

“He’s down,” Peter said. He kindly put his body between Neal’s and Moreau’s, blocking the sight of him, and Neal let it go, like he hadn’t noticed what Peter was doing. Peter had seen him turn away from bodies before. 

“This isn’t your fault,” Peter said, his voice low. “Once it went south -- he didn’t want to walk out of here, Neal.” 

Neal wanted to believe that. He tried very hard for a semblance of his normal tone. “Think you were cutting it a little close?” he asked. 

“You’re still in one piece, aren’t you?” In a more gentle tone, Peter said, “You’re fine, Neal. Turn in your gear and go home.” 

“Really?” Neal said. It was his regular post-sting banter, a little forced, but he felt like he had to make the attempt. “Because this is outside my radius, way outside, and I thought as long as we’re here --” 

“Go home, Neal,” Peter said, a hint of the old irritation creeping in. 

“The Unicorn tapestries are really incredible, Peter, you should see them,” Neal said. 

“Go. Get out of my face.” 

Neal went. If he forgot to pick up his anklet on the way, it was only because he was badly shaken by his most recent near-death experience.

* * *

The lights were on in his studio when he got home. Arthur and Eames sat at his table, a small, paper wrapped parcel on the table between them. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?” Neal asked, his voice light. 

“We’re paroled,” Arthur said, the dry tone doing nothing to hide the obvious affection and concern. 

“Possibly deported. Its been _suggested_ we leave the country, now that things are resolved,” Eames said.

Neal hadn’t expected any less. “Peter got you flights?” 

“Tomorrow in the early afternoon,” Arthur said. “We thought we’d finish the business we came here for, although we’ve missed your birthday now.” 

Neal eyeballed the package, took in its size and shape and gauged the size in his head. “Tell me you didn’t,” he said. 

“We didn’t,” Arthur said promptly. Eames grinned. 

“It’s mine. I told your agent it was a present, after all.” 

“And he let you have it back?” Neal said. “Isn’t it evidence? I’m impressed.” 

“Well, he didn’t want to make a liar of me.” Eames watched as Neal took the painting and unwrapped it. “It’s no Matisse, I grant you,” Eames said. “I am sorry about that, Neal.” 

“I think I prefer an Eames to a Matisse,” Neal said. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

* * *

Eames spun in the center of the warehouse like a child surrounded by candy. Neal couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man this delighted -- it was a special kind of high that only came over his father after extremely good heists. 

“It’s true, you stopped it from burning,” Arthur said. For his part, he was standing beside Neal at the door, his eyes wide as he surveyed the seemingly endless bounty of crates, the framed paintings that had been unpacked and leaned in stacks on every available surface. Neal grinned. 

“I thought you knew whenever I pulled a heist,” he teased. 

“I suspected,” Arthur said. “But this was so clean, and the forensics on the sub came back -- it seemed impossible the art hadn’t burned. There was so much evidence against it --” 

“I wished Peter felt the same way,” Neal said, although it lacked the heat it would have had before this evening. 

“You have _three_ Degas!” Eames crowed. Neal and Arthur both grinned. “I can see how a single Matisse might seem almost paltry.” 

“It’s not just that,” Neal said. The Matisse had been his favorite since childhood, it was true, but Eames’s replica was exquisite. “These are beautiful, but the pieces that matter are with the people who matter,” he said finally. 

“Still, this is quite a score, Neal.” Eames turned to face him, every inch the proud parent, practically beaming. “What will you do with it?” 

Neal thought about Peter offering him a hand up while the ground scorched where Moreau’s bullets had landed. “I wish I knew,” he said.

* * *

Goodbyes, the official ones, came the next morning at the office. Apparently Arthur and Eames had spent the duration of their “imprisonment” staying with Diana and Jones, respectively. Each of them shook hands with their host, and if Arthur advised Diana on the best tailor in New York (who might not work on the books) and if Eames offered Jones a few tips on sporting events and how bookies covered the spread (especially useful at certain less-than-reputable betting establishments) Peter turned an almost fond blind eye. 

Neal was clapped back in irons, or at least, back into his restraining anklet, though Peter granted him permission to see his fathers to the airport. Neal went with Eames to load each of their small suitcases into the cab. He didn’t see Arthur enter Peter’s office. 

Peter was at his desk, leaning over a stack of paperwork. Unsurprisingly, shooting a suspect generated an astonishing amount. Even when the shooting had been thoroughly justified. “Can I help you, Arthur?” Peter asked, without looking up. Some of the animosity had dimmed between them over the last six weeks, but Peter had to get these forms filed. 

“I brought this for you,” Arthur said without preamble, and he placed it on the table. It was a painting Neal had done at sixteen, before things had gone to hell. A still life of sunflowers and apples. 

Peter looked up. "Thanks, but I already have a Caffrey original,” he said.

"The Chrysler, I saw.” When they’d visited the Burkes’, it had been hanging in the living room. Arthur had recognized his son’s work immediately, without needing to check the signature. “It's beautiful. I think you should have this one."

Maybe Peter heard something in Arthur’s voice, or maybe he was just looking for an excuse, but he stopped and looked up. “Any particular reason?” 

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. "Peter, Neal came to us when he was thirteen. He'd already lived a life. He lived another one with us. We're not the people he painted this for, anymore." 

Peter took the painting by the edges of the canvas, tilting it in the light. It was more than just an average still life, he realized, not some careful composition Neal had arranged for the painting. The sunflowers fell sideways in the vase, and the very edges of the leaves were brushed with brown, hinting that they were just past their prime. The apples were red and ripe, but here or there a natural blemish would just hint that they’d been handpicked, that someone had grabbed too hard as they pulled an apple from the tree. 

The entire painting was bathed in the warm golds of a fall afternoon, and the table wasn’t draped with white silk or artfully arranged. It was just a plain, white-tiled table, set against a plain white wall, and through the window, he saw the Manhattan skyline, glowing in the autumn sun. On the back was simply written, ‘Sunday -- the Queens apartment.’ Peter set the painting down. 

"Maybe I'm not, either. I gave Neal total immunity and he fed me a crock of shit,” he said finally, almost as if he were waiting for Arthur to tell him he was wrong.

Arthur did, promptly and fiercely. "Neal tells a creative version of the truth, sometimes, but he means every word. If he lied, it was to protect someone else." 

Peter considered that. Considered Mozzie, who had featured prominently in the story. Considered Neal’s memory of Kate. “Thank you,” he said finally. “Maybe I’ll hang it in here.” 

“This place could certainly use the color,” Arthur agreed dryly. 

“So tell me,” Peter said. “That life Neal lived with you -- are you the only family he’s going to have come looking for him?” 

“Maybe not,” Arthur said, and Peter didn’t doubt that he knew. He just wasn’t saying. 

As much as Peter appreciated the painting, he reflected, he wasn’t likely to miss the man. “Why don’t I walk you downstairs,” he said. “Your cab is waiting.” 

Arthur grinned, and allowed himself to be steered. 

At street level, Eames stood with Neal, the cab loaded and the driver idling on the curb. 

“I’d say it’s been a treat, but it hasn’t been,” he said brightly, giving Peter a firm handshake and Neal an affectionate shoulder squeeze. “Ta very much, let’s not do it again.” 

“You’re sounding especially British,” Arthur told him, then turned his gaze on Neal. “Do not be stupid. I know when you’re stupid, and it makes me crotchety.” 

“Anything but that,” Neal said. 

“It does. Crotchety for weeks. There’s no living with him, it’s hell. Behave for me, if nothing else,” Eames said. 

And just like that they were gone. The cab pulled away from the curb, leaving Peter and Neal standing side by side. 

“Well,” Neal said, “What’d you think?” 

“I think it explains more about you than it doesn’t.” Peter said. It made Neal grin, and for a moment they stood together, silent. Then, Peter said, “You know, there van from the Met came less than ten minutes ago. They needed to retrieve their Matisse.” 

Neal hesitated, but didn’t commit fully as he said, “That’s quite a coincidence, their flight being almost exactly the same time.”

“That painting’s never going to make it back to the Met, is it?” Peter asked, resigned. 

“Probably not, no,” Neal said. “We should follow them.” 

“We should follow them.” They broke apart, both heading for the Taurus, moving like a team. 

It felt good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this final chapter up. August went crazy on me. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for taking the time to read, comment, or leave kudos. It's meant a tremendous amount to me. I hope you've enjoyed the fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> An extra-special final thank you to Windswept, without whom the entire Skybird universe would never have existed.


End file.
